The Game
by fufulupin
Summary: Oneshot from Joanne's POV as she reflects on Maureen.


Disclaimer: Wow, it's been ages since my last fanfic…hmm. Well, obviously, I don't own Rent. Not even a little bit. None of the lyrics, none of the characters, none of the actors _portraying _the characters—nope. Nothin'.

A/N: I'm on a Rent kick. I watched the film and, since then, it has taken over my life in a sickeningly-complete sort of way. I haven't listened to any other music in a week, and I ended up writing this lovely little one-shot in my Hellth (or Health) class a few days ago. I'm not sure how anyone else will feel about it, but I'm proud of its existence. Joanne struck me as a really interesting character; Maureen struck me as interesting in a much more frustrating way. I could do nothing but write a fic on them. And, hey, if this goes over well—or if I keep listening to "Take Me or Leave Me" on repeat—I'll probably write more of these. Hope y'all enjoy.

She wants so badly to be angry. Everything is easier when you're angry, she's learned. Problems make sense when you can argue them out. She's a lawyer; she, of all people, should know.

She's always doing this thinking thing, and always on this same topic.

Maureen's late again.

This is what Maureen does. Maureen comes in at two in the morning. Maureen comes in with hundreds of stories, and she can't seem to understand one. Maureen comes in with no regard to how _she _feels. Sometimes, Maureen doesn't come in at all.

It would be so easy, she thinks, to leave Maureen. To say she hates Maureen. To just walk away with what's left of her heart.

It's funny, how the line between easy and impossible tends to fade out.

_The tango Maureen…_

She remembers Mark's song. Every word. She remembers trying weakly to disagree, to shoulder his words out of the way, to dismiss obvious fact as delusional fiction. And she remembers caving in. She remembers.

He's a nice guy, Mark. Blond hair that never seems to lay flat, innocent blue eyes that are magnified by thick glasses, really bad dance moves. A penchant for cameras, scarves, and tables. She thinks it's funny, thinking on what a good friend he's become. Especially after she spent so long hating him for what he once had. What _she _now has.

She knows his is probably the better side of the deal. At any rate, it's the _easier _side. And she knows just as clearly that she wouldn't—couldn't—say the same for herself if Maureen chose to find someone new.

Mark is a nice guy. Just like she's a nice girl.

What does that make Maureen?

Maureen is, she understands, her own person. Beautiful in spirit, wild in action—utterly unbreakable. Not that she's tried to break Maureen. She can't handle hurting her loved ones like that.

She doesn't think Maureen exactly enjoys that habit either. But that changes nothing. Maureen has the power to hurt, to stab, to kill—and the power to resurrect as if nothing had happened.

She doesn't know what she should feel right now. Reasons says she should be angry. Reason says she shouldn't take the torment Maureen so often dishes out. Reason says she should never have let Maureen get away with doing this sort of thing to begin with.

Reason has always been her life, but she knows with weary certainty that it doesn't matter. She doesn't need reason to predict the exact scene of Maureen's homecoming before it even unfolds.

Maureen will walk through that door. She will smile that devastating, wicked smile. Her eyes will say—no, _insist_—that nothing is wrong. That nothing ever was wrong. She will come to the couch.

Maureen won't behave any differently than on any other night. Never mind their fight, the one they'd had only this morning. In Maureen's world, the past never matters. And, unfortunately, neither does the future.

_She _thinks differently. She will be on that couch, the picture of sullen unhappiness. Her arms will be crossed. Her body will be taut. Her eyes will be narrowed.

_She_ did not forget their fight, the one that had the same steps and tune as all the others. _She _does not forget.

Maureen will sit beside her. She will try her hardest not to respond when the other woman reaches out to her. She will force herself to cling to her rage. She will bite down on the urge to just give in. Again. And, for a moment, she will be able to delude herself into thinking she will win.

For once.

Then the moment will slipstream into all the others and it will be _Maureen _who speaks, _Maureen_ who smiles, _Maureen_ who slips an arm around her shoulders. At the touch—simple, basic, warm—she will feel her resolve weakening, tumbling, splitting apart. She will try in vain to hold on. She will try so hard to keep her defenses up.

And then Maureen will deal the killing blow. Maureen will lean close. Maureen will smile once more. Maureen will kiss her, a full kiss, a loving kiss, a Maureen-kiss.

And she will fall apart.

She sighs, recognizing this. This is the path. This is the game. And she doesn't know any rule beyond the first: Maureen wins. Every round, every time. Without fail.

Just once, she thinks tiredly. Just one time, she wants to be able to rewrite the rule. Just once, she wants to hold onto her rage long enough to make Maureen do what _she _wants. Just once.

A key is in the lock. She can hear it turn. She draws in a breath, folds her arms, and waits.

The ball is in Maureen's court, as always. She knows exactly how it will be played.

And she knows she'll never be able to change it.

Maureen's not through that door yet, but she knows.

Maureen has already won.

_Gotta look on the bright side with all of my might_, she thinks wryly in that last moment before the knob turns.

_I'm dancing a tango to hell. But at least I'll have tangoed at all._


End file.
